Stormy weather
You will of course, at the onset itself, forgive me graciously if I ramble in the course of telling you this unbelievable true story. It is an affliction of age – nothing more; at 87, I may place on record that while my gait is still military firm though never having been a man of arms, am punctilious in my varied dealings with my empty home, rare visitors, my neighbors and at work, and am quite capable of looking after myself without needing, or seeking, assistance from anyone, I do tend to find myself falling victim to that sly disease you would call aimless speech. My granddaughter Shabnam is the only one who enjoys it from the heart, but then what else can she do with my love? Most others either humor me, or tolerate these extended diversions silently, while the balance few spit their barbs beneath shrouded hisses, or arching, knowing looks to others of their ilk. Of the latter’s worst, I usually notice little, and what I do grasp is normally restricted to the awkward silence which passes about the room, as if the devil had been temporarily in attendance. I also know that the preceding week has been particularly trying for them, my endless words a product of that most awful combination – elation mixed with numbing sadness. But in the end, they are all harmless and recognize me to be the same, even my darling little Shabbu; all know that I have shot my bolt and am now merely waiting for the smoke to leave the barrel. And there you have it – I have rambled again! How remiss. I must start again. What a story I have, neatly folded in eight and placed with care in my sharply cut waist coat – in the left watch pocket. ‘Veskit’, we call it in our patois… I miss Farid so much.
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To begin once more, from the events of Monday, with a loud imprecation ringing in my ears, warning me to be brief, and to the point:
The morning began with Basavanna the postman delivering a letter from my younger sister in Lucknow. She is famously unlettered even if her equally-famous elegance would have you believe otherwise, so the firm script points to a young assistant having been employed to convey the horrible news; it is the sad way of our world – we suffer not suffragettes yet. Her grandson Farid was no more; a rissaldar in the Sutlej Lancers, and part of Dyer’s relieving force, he was killed at Thal during a third frontier campaign against the Afghans – this round occasioned by the megalomaniac Habibullah’s outrageous demand for an Afghan seat at the peace treaty table in Versailles. I was heartbroken; I had seen the boy last when he was 14, on a private visit made out of my own pocket while in Delhi with the Survey’s chief, young John Marshall sahib. I remembered Farid as a handsome lad, eager to please, always busy with his knockabout soccer in the narrow alleyways encircling their tiny home, and ever respectful of my age. His grandfather was always drunk, but cheerfully, and somehow never failed to provide his family peace along with their penury. Our fault, I suppose: we took their high born linkages to mean something material, and annexation or no annexation, marital alliances with a family that might once have hosted an emperor, was then still considered a mark of breeding. My sister never complained. But now the boy was dead.
Images of the young fellow stayed with me as I wound my exit into the trapeze art of winter clothing; 9 AM, but the sun still shone coldly over the Nizam’s dominions. It was early December, and a reminder that the early Bahmanids had chosen this spot for their capital precisely on account of its elevation and salubrious weather. Not so salubrious to an old man though, I muttered, closing the gate behind me and striding briskly on the old Qila Road to the Survey office. We called it the adjunct building, as if the promise of vast funds would have caused the public works department to swiftly materialize a grand office at the foot of the fort, commensurate with the grandeur of both our work and the past. We got Dr. Yazdani instead.
And today, like every day when he was here on tour from Hyderabad, he was waiting for me by the gate, up on his toes. Always some new find, some new story, some new linkage to matters ancient and long forgotten, and delivered to me in high spirited rapidity. And he always repeated himself. Some years back, he spent an entire week reminding me every morning of the excitement he felt with the Maski find. Yes, it was the clinching bit no doubt, the first Ashokan edict to be discovered where the great emperor was referred to by name, proving everyone from Prinsep downwards right. But the same story every morning, for a week? I tell you! The man is an intellectual pestilence that will not abate. He rushed forward, grinning broadly, nearly having his toes crushed by a rickshaw puller who had to veer wildly to avoid the collision.
“Professor! Professor!” he was much younger than me, and in such evident haste that his formal bow, his aadaab, was a courtesy his bony frame nearly couldn’t bear, “Today I have it. Oh Sir, I have it! God is truly great!”
He chattered excitedly, leading me by the elbow to my room, at a pace well beyond my age. It was an old manuscript. Very old, but perfectly preserved, and only just recovered from a Maulana in Gulbarga. Come, come fast! An old family, a good family, quite pious, with familial ties to Bidar; and an old trunk opened to the public only after he, Yazdani, had spread the word that manuscripts meant money and fame.
“I trust no one else” he whispered, carefully removing the oilskin wrapping, “It is yours Sir. And you must tell only me of its contents. Please -” he indicated to my chair with long, narrow fingers, “Please Sir. I leave for Bijapur now”
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The manuscript was well preserved, covered in gold lettering on leather. Each page was loose, the writing single-sided, many filled with delicate illustrations and long passages of fine verse. My mouth fell open. As I began to read, my sister’s letter and images of Farid passed sadly from my mind. When I looked at my watch next, it was past noon; when I checked again, it was almost dusk. Over the subsequent five days, I skipped my prayers and numerous meals, staying late in the office, until Shabnam was assigned the task of bringing my meals to me. Thrice, I found her father waiting patiently by the office gate with a rickshaw, well after 9 PM, ready to have me delivered home without rancor or complaint. The other days, Shivappa the night watchman walked half the way with me, his fat stick tapping the dusty earthen path, keeping the midnight madness of rabid city dogs away.
Late in the afternoon on the sixth day, everything fell into place and I stopped reading. Sending word in advance, I called on our family physician Dr. Hussain Shah, and in the best traditions of Bidari benevolence, he heard me out intently, and silently, before rising to pour me a very large brandy. I drink but rarely these days, and never in the presence of my family; it is only our hakim Hussain-bhai who, when seized by the mood – for he too is a widower like myself – calls around the office with a sly smile. At which we walk to his home and indulge in his marvelous stock of what we like to call, Hippocratic Hippocrene from Helicon High! Such juvenile alliteration. But none of that was present last evening. Instead, I wound into a tight, snug circle, the curious case of an Englishman’s works on Persian literature, containing an unknown Englishwoman’s translation of some old Persian poetry – a 14th century ghazal sent in thanks to a monarch in a far off land.
The Englishman is the Cambridge don and Orientalist Mr. EG Browne, whom I once met there some thirty years ago – at Pembroke College to be precise, in 1889 I think it was; the woman is a Miss Gertrude Bell, whom I know nothing of, save that her translations made their way into Mr. Browne’s classic ‘A literary history of Persia” [an advance copy of the latest volume of which has sat, well-read, at my desk for some months now]; and the monarch is none other than Mahmud Shah Bahmani the Second, who ruled from this very Bidar between 1378 and 1397 Anno Domini. For some time, I have wondered after the provenance of the poem. What reason, I mused frequently, might have engineered such a profuse outpouring of deep gratitude from such a great poet, to such a relatively obscure monarch? What was the story there? Today I have the answer, picked clean from my reading of the Gulbarga manuscript
And just in case I am done for by infirmity, and the connections I have drawn are lost to the world until some young eye in a future generation spots it again, I hereby set my thoughts down on paper – along with fond memories of my handsome rissaldar, and much love to my dearest Shabnam. This then, is the story I found in the ‘Tarikh-i-Gilani’, written by a Sheikh Tahir Kirmani between 1487 and 1491 Anno Domini: a compendious work on the Bahmani kings of Gulbarga and Bidar, and a detailed biography of our own Mahmud Gawan, a Persian migrant who was kingmaker and Prime Minister to Shah Muhammad the Third, from 1462 to 1482.
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Excerpts from a collection of letters placed in a sort of appendix at the end of the sheaf of pages [Note. I have toned down the authors’ long-winded, deferential form of writing, culling, what I call literary genuflection to a minimum; my remarks are placed in parentheses within the selected passages; also, the name places and dates are transposed to what we use in the current Era]:
Mir Inju: “By the grace of almighty God the merciful, have we now set relieved foot within the gates of this most pleasureable city without becoming prey to loot, vice, folly or natural vagaries, and with grateful assistance from the body of courtiers who do form the rank and file of the Royal darbar, have we repaired to our quarters of refinement within the main palace. The wine is like nothing your majesty might have tasted before and have we in the very hour of our arrival, bearing the worth of your royal palate in mind, commissioned the head of the wine merchants’ guild to prepare for rocky transport, many casks of this tasteful beverage so that it may gild thine royal tongue as sweetly as it does ours. As custodian of royal wrath and mercy has the head commander of the monarch’s faithful one thousand spoken, and so does he assure us with the truth of the book upon his lips, that the materiel shall be to thy satisfaction, be it the question of his head for his word”
“And so today have we met him in his hovel, for his dwelling may be painted as nothing more, wherefrom by these words we do hereby transmit to your royal ears…that he is indeed famished of fortune and laden by crushing debt, precisely as the stories would have had us believe when told in your holy presence…that he yearns to be free of these material yokes which he humbly concedes, have been shacked upon his being by none other than himself…that he would have us visit him again and again, tomorrow and the morrow thereafter, famished as his spirit is for freedom from these unworthy burdens of owed coin, for in the intervening meanwhile he would seek parley with his creditors and prepare a full sum and account of what exactly is promised to whom since when.”
“…that we have today sat and reviewed his list of accounts, and bearing the worth of his genius and your royal highness’s desires in mind, have further visited with the masters of the various guilds for verifying the same…it is true that so much is owed to the merchant Ali of Esfahan [the page of accounts is torn]…it is true that his penchant for house building along the upper slopes of the Dastkher sector of the city outskirts, would have caused great monetary accumulations to his family, save for his whimsical gesture of not having surveyed the sight for water sources prior to placing his name upon the transaction, such gesture not taking anything away from him though, since it is in the nature of such literary-minded souls to be both of big heart and to be seen to be so…that we have today learnt of the distinct erosion in patronage of the arts, which the great Shah Shuja who defends the faith of these lands was normally habitual of pursuing, and which erosion was caused not by any willful change of heart, but infused into the body of regal workings by the mercy tribute enforced into payment, when Taimur of the Lame Leg arrived in Fars in conquest [1382 A.D.]”
“It is with special elation and the ring of a thousand nightingale notes in our hearts, that we do this day, by hand of urgent dispatch, take liberty to inform your Highness that he has agreed…truly are the ways of the divine indescribably wonderful, and we ourselves are scarce able to contain our breaths or our excitement, on the great fortune that shall now blow east to our lands.”
“We your servants take leave by your command to report, that the settlement of owed monies has been completed and that, the Qazi Asnafi has pressed his seal to the approval of clearance of all pending liabilities towards the Master… that by royal firman do we herewith hand possession of this universal treasure over to the capable bond of Master Hamdani, Grand Merchant of Gulbarga, who has in turn, given his word upon pain of death that further conveyance shall be undertaken with the care afforded to newborns. With this our duty done, we grant our sinews, aching to move our minds westwards, free rein, and with the name of God upon our lips do gladly take up the privileges of holy pilgrimage”
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Master Hamadani: “May it give your exalted greatness much joy to learn that we have in the weeks past, traversed the province of Fars in the direction south of the rising sun without hindrance, to Laristan, steering clear of the Achomi-speaking heathen that abound here…he is bound to joyous repose in most hours of time, regaling himself and the winds with fresh compositions that we fear only greater minds may fully appreciate, gifting alms to the spiritual we encounter in the course of our passage, and…[page torn]”
“…and from the capital of Laristan have we now, by the grace of the Almighty, been finally blessed with the sight of ocean waves at Gamrun [Bandar Abbas, the straits of Hormuz], where we have been received on his account with great felicitation…the great five-mast’d Bahmani mariner can be seen across the waters, and we intend to cross tomorrow or the day thereafter, once the joltings of the long journey have been removed from his body”
“It is now eight days past our arrival on the coast, and we await the turning of his mind…the local governor says he must not be disturbed when in séance of creation, but no verses have come – only words.”
“…he asks for more money to pay the scrabbling herds of devouts and penitents, and we have done so without question…but it is seventeen days now and the weather turns…we have been away from home since [February 1386]”
“A thousand pairs of cheering eyes watched as we set off from Gamrun for the island port of Hormuz, dozens of other small craft keeping us company across the narrow stretch of blue water, and a thousand roars welcomed us deafeningly on the island mound, where our great ship lay anchored. We had but transferred baggage and great person on board, and the captain had sounded the order for the ropes to be cast off, when a terrible wind arose like from out of hell. The skies grew dark as night, the waves endeavored to crest the bridge, and there was much rocking and heaving…he says he will not go, that the winds are against us”
“We have bid him fond farewell, provided a baggage train as escort, and have taken possession in turn, a string of words composed for your eminence. He says he was a fool to have ever thought of leaving his beautiful Shiraz…There is nothing more to be done but for us to depart. Our heads hang under the weight of shame.”
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The ‘Tarikh-i-Gilani’ makes no specific mention of these matters, but in one passage, the author notes that on 13th March 1387, Mahmud Shah Bahmani the Second, ordered to death, a band of men who had been conspiring to depose him. The names include:
– Mir Fazlu’l-lah Inju Sadr-i-Jahan, pupil of the great Arabic scholar Mulla Sa’du’d-din Taftazani, of Khorasan
– Khwaja Zainu’d-din Hamadani, Master Merchant of Gulbarga
– Khwaja Muhammad Garzuni, prominent horse trader from Bijapur
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Mr. EG Browne, in a private correspondence with me, says the following verses were found on page 97 of the ‘Diwan’ printed in Bombay. The translation is by Miss Gertrude Bell. I quote only the first and last couplets:
“Not all the sum of earthly happiness
Is worth the bowed head of a moment’s pain
And if I sell for wine my dervish dress,
Worth more than what I sell is my gain”
“Full easy seems the sorrow of the sea,
Lightened by hope of gain – hope flew too fast!
A hundred pearls were poor indemnity,
Not worth the blast”
So, am I simply an aged, doddering simpleton who fondly and foolishly believes that the world – my world, my beautiful Bidar – would have been different, if so great a talent of Shiraz had somehow overcome his fears to board that ship? As an historian by training my answer is ‘No!”, the test of my theory being the current state of affairs in Iran: between their awkward monarchy and their awkward indifference to the ways of the world today, Hafiz might never have written at all. For, what virtue does the crown of the day draw in sustenance, defense or succor, from his verses? None. Or, is the answer embedded more firmly in the mundane, in that patch of dead soil we overstep with haste – that old men should not spin tales? Honestly, I don’t know. Anyway, it is late and well past time for supper. Shabbu will be along soon, and I have to bend for namaaz. These days, the floorboards creak less than my bones, and I miss Farid very much…
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Venu @ the window 